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So Jules mused that the only thing we really differ on is "our two cents." Meaning: our opinions. What we think about things. Like movies and guys and personal philosophies.

For everything else, of course, our brains are as one, and it's sometimes frightening to watch. Let alone experience. To reassure ourselves that we are still indeed separate entities we employ the old logic-and-order vs. random-and-irrational debate over coffee at Starbucks or nail polish selection at Eckerd (open 24 hours, LIKE EVERYTHING SHOULD BE). I claim repeatedly that deciding that there is no plan or pattern to the world does not suddenly plunge it into a vortex of writhing chaos, because the world does not depend on your worldview. She disagrees with that on many levels, on none of which has she ever converted me. But it's fun to keep trying.

And then we move on, leaving the discussion for another time. Impulse buying at convenience stores (hey, when you eat pencils as fast as I do, you need to stock up) while snarking on the friendly help is also what we do. Then the jaunt across the street for Grillworks takeout, and belated QAF to remind ourselves just how hot Brian is. In all, a pleasant evening of concentrated responsibility-avoidance.

It's criminology for me tomorrow at 8:30; I'm about three chapters behind in the reading and might want to catch up before the exam on Thursday. I'd probably care more if the class wasn't so embarrassingly easy. For challenges I look to stupid sonnet constructs and anthropology lab exams. A little of everything this week. And only four more days till spring break.

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Spontaneously waking up at 6:42 and not falling asleep again completely defeats the purpose of sacrificing my morning shower and setting my alarm twenty minutes later than usual to 8:00. On the positive side, I was actually early to crim for the first time in seven weeks.

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Whenever my poetry class starts boring me, I take out my Sharpie and start doodling more triangles. I'll be able to wallpaper my dorm by the end of the semester. Because my poetry class is very. boring.

Charles, the grad student who teaches it, is a great guy, knows his stuff and loves it, and tries very hard to get the rest of the class into it; he leads them on like all your English teachers did when you were discussing poems, pointing things out and waiting for them to pick up on and expand them. But they never do. They just sit there. Why? Because they're dumb. Granted, I did manage to find a class with all the business finance and excercise therapy majors who need Gordon Rule and humanities gen. ed. credits, but they have had to write at some point, haven't they? I mean, they did make it through at least twelve years of school, and from what I can dimly remember there was some kind of writing involved no matter what classes you took, wasn't there? Am I being an English snob? I'm being an English snob. And probably with no justification whatsoever. But they aggravate me. And you don't have to read their poems. Well, except for Jules, who sometimes shares my pain.

I'm not claiming to be the next Shakespeare or anything -- but that brings me to the other thing I hate about this class. The assignments. I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge that poetry writing, especially in traditional forms, is highly structured, complex, and labor-intensive. But his assignments suck. They have structure in all the wrong places. You would think that word choice would be one of the most important and effective tools a poet employs, but that's where he's placing all his restrictions. This week's gem? Write a sonnet: it has to be fourteen lines, ten syllables each, but not necessarily in iambic pentameter; and then he gives us all the end words. That is, your fourteen lines have to end with the following words (in this exact order): light, eye, sight, majesty, hill, age, still, pilgrimage, car, day, are, way, noon, son. I fume a bit. And then I think: Hmm. Shakespearean form...extensive use of slant rhyme...could Charles possibly... So I go home and check it out, and sure enough! Sonnet VII, straight out of the Collected Works. That's fine. As long as we're filling in someone else's poem, why not one of the Bard's? I'm sure we can all churn out sonnets at least as good, and probably better.

Am I wrong here? Am I sitting in the middle of the box? If you give me a pillow and turn off the light, I could go to sleep in here. Are these conventional creative writing class assignments? Should I be looking on this as an intellectual exercise and challenge for my creative powers? Really? Because at this point I'm only getting frustration. I end up spending my Wednesdays writing bad poetry and getting stress headaches. Then I lounge in class for two and a half hours, keeping all my mockery to myself, and finding small comfort in the familiar smell of permanent marker.

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It's off to an Etiquette Dinner I go. For use in those business interviews and scholarship receptions I'm sure to be having in my future. Bread on the left, water on the right, silverware goes in towards the plate as the courses go on. What else is there? I don't know, but my ten bucks got me an "elegant full course meal" and I'm game to find out.